


What We're Dealt

by Briar_Rose_Bramble



Category: 'Screenplay' Safe (TV Episode 1993), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Anyelle, F/M, Nostelle, fleeting perceived dubcon, implied domestic violence (off screen), implied drug use (off screen)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 08:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4428404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briar_Rose_Bramble/pseuds/Briar_Rose_Bramble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she'd first appeared, doing her best to appear unfazed and unafraid, acting like she often bought drugs at street corners, she'd pulled a crisp twenty from her pocket and presented it like it was nothing. Now she begrudges each and every penny. Rumbelle Christmas In July 2015 gift for theladyofdarkcastle who prompted: Belle's just as broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We're Dealt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theladyofthedarkcastle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyofthedarkcastle/gifts).



He holds out the neatly folded paper packet and the girl – he hasn't learned her name yet, which given his normal insight into the lives of his customers intrigues him nearly as much as her pale skin and curious accent – and like an idiot she reaches for it, giving Nosty the opportunity to snatch it back with a grin on his face.

"Ah, ah!" he cautions, giving in to the urge to waggle a finger in her face. "Pay up first, sweetheart. Twenty quid."

She's neither annoyed nor amused by his antics, but simply fishes in her pocket for a ten, a five and some loose change.

When she'd first appeared, doing her best to appear unfazed and unafraid, acting like she often bought drugs at street corners, she'd pulled a crisp twenty from her pocket and presented it like it was nothing. Now she begrudges each and every penny.

"You know," he tells her with a salacious grin. "If money's tight, there are other ways you can pay."

Her blue eyes flick to his and he's pleased to have finally provoked a reaction. The victory becomes hollow as her pretty nose wrinkles in distaste and she all but snatches her hand away.

"Maybe next time," he winks, refusing to feel rejection's small sting. "Most see my appeal eventually."

* * *

 

Next time arrives a few days later. Elsewhere it would be warm for May, but London is a sweaty sinkhole for nine months of the year. Already the air is heavy with soupy humidity and the constant near-threat of rain, but the girl is huddled inside a tired cardigan, the sleeves pulled down over her arms. It's a common habit among the junkies who still have something left of their pride.

The girl certainly has that. Although old, her clothes have been well taken care of and while her long hair is badly in need of a cut, it's obviously clean. When she reaches into her pocket she withdraws a twenty pound note, so crisp that Nosty could easily be persuaded that she's ironed it flat before coming to him.

Maybe it's this spark of defiance that makes him do it. Maybe it's just the devil that sits inside his chest.

"There's been a price increase," he tells her. "Twenty-five quid a wrap."

He's seen a lot of this city's less fortunate and to be honest, he's probably made things worse for a lot of them, too. He likes to play with people, using the strings of their addiction or their ignorance to make them dance to a tune of his choosing. That's what happens when you become a slave to something. That's why he'll never use the shit that he peddles. That's why he often comes to despise those that do.

Oh, he's paid for his entertainment a few times. Tears, threats, even a knife glancing off his ribs and leaving him strung out and breathless until the subsequent fever had passed. He's seen all sorts of reactions – anger's the most common, followed by desperation. Third is his favourite; that resigned look of a body who knows that they will perform whatever petty demands he makes of them in order to fulfil a debt.

He watches her closely as he speaks, wondering which it will be. She surprises him by opting for a fourth choice he hadn't considered; her eyes growing wide and her mouth becoming pinched with sudden fear.

"I don't have any more," she whispers.

He could just tell her that he'll let her owe him. If he was any sort of decent, he might even let her off entirely, but you don't become top dog or keep a tight rein on your manor by being decent. Instead Nosty smiles, flashing his uneven teeth.

"Maybe we can come to a deal," he says.

* * *

 

The girl is almost entirely closed in upon herself, her shoulders hunched, her chin sunk into her chest, but she follows him up the alley amid the laughter and catcalls of his colleagues. Perhaps she knows his reputation – Christ knows he's worked hard enough to ensure his punters do – or perhaps she simply expects it from filth like himself – yet she's apparently willing to let him use her mouth or her body in order to secure the gram of heroin tucked securely away inside the lining of his battered leather jacket.

He's intrigued, despite himself. Five pounds is not much money by anyone's standards; barely the cost of a cappuccino or a fancy sandwich from one of the numerous coffee shops that now litter his stomping ground. He's made people do worse for less, but he wouldn't have thought that this girl, with her neatly trimmed nails and her floral shampoo, has reached that level of desperation just yet.

It gnaws at him, making him want to ask her what she thinks she's doing. He squashes the feeling down.

Reaching the alcove of a doorway, he stops, leaning against the chipped paint. The girl stops a couple of feet away from him and makes no move to come closer.

"What do you want?" she asks. Her voice is mostly monotone, but Nosty can hear the faintest tremble of suppressed emotion. He has a finely-tuned ear for such things, after all.

"I just want to talk, love." He holds out his arms, palms up. It's an unthreatening gesture, but still the girl flinches. "How about you give me that twenty, eh?"

"But—" She wants to argue, to point out that whatever he demands of her will be worth more than a few pounds, and for a moment Nosty glimpses the spark that still resides inside her. Then, just as quickly, it's gone. "Here," she says dully, handing the money over. She watches hungrily as it disappears inside his jacket.

"We have a slight problem here," Nosty informs her. He enjoys the patter of his trade, enjoys the theatre of it. It's rare that anyone will dare interrupt him when he's waxing lyrical, and it amuses him how words can bully or tease, cajole and enrage, and how the shift of his voice can intimidate or intrigue. "This is a business that operates on the exchange of monies in payment for goods received," he expounds. "There's little place for bartering here, and even less room for charity. There are no discounts for friends and family, you ken? And even if there were, well, we're hardly well acquainted, are we?"

The girl doesn't answer, but Nosty can tell from the way her lips work that she is biting down on the inside of her cheek.

"But there also has so be good faith between parties in this sort of relationship," he continues. "You have to be able to trust me to provide a high quality product, especially if you are planning on shooting that shit directly into your veins, if you will pardon my bluntness. Likewise, I have to be able to trust each of my customers to uphold their end in this transaction. It's a high risk market, no word of a lie."

Her eyes are clear, and Nosty knows that none of what he is saying has gone over her head, even if he's meandering towards the point at a snail's pace. Not so strung out that she can't follow, bright enough to understand.

"Now this is the first time you have approached me with the question of credit," he states, even though she had done nothing of the sort. "Until now you've always had the readies necessary for an easy sale, which stands in your favour. As such, I'm willing to consider a different sort of exchange. You can have your skag for the carefully rendered portrait of Elgar now residing in my pocket on the condition that you answer a question for me."

Her surprise is obvious, which amuses him, as is the sudden flash of gratitude that fills her pretty face, which does not. It's not as if the choice is really hers, but she nods her head. "Alright," she breathes.

Nosty beckons her closer and she comes, less grateful now, but trusting nonetheless. He keeps the gesture up until she is stood inside his personal space, partly blocking him in the doorway with her narrow body. He suppresses a shiver at the sensation of being boxed in, not allowing his discomfort to detract from hers.

Instead he leans forwards until his mouth is level with her ear, his nose almost pressed into her soft mess of hair.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Belle," she blurts reflexively before calming herself to answer again, more composed this time. "My name is Belle."

"Very good," he replies, pulling a wrap from nowhere and holding it out. She takes it skittishly, still half-convinced that he only means to play with her. "Now off you trot."

She's halfway to the mouth of the alley when he stops her. "Oh, and Belle?" he calls, smiling as she comes to a halt. "If you ever find yourself in financial distress again, don't go expecting for any further favours. Next time, I'll expect something rather more tangible in exchange, you ken?"

His leer ensures that she is in no doubt of his meaning.

* * *

 

Belle hands over twenty five pounds in silence only two days later. She's wearing a man's hoodie, her arms covered as usual, the hood pulled up. It doesn't hide the bruise on her cheek.

Nosty can think of ten jokes to let her know he can see the injury, each one worse than the last, but he isn't in the mood. Instead he hands over her purchase with a wounded air.

"Not in the mood for bartering, then?" he asks, loud enough to draw jeers from the boys that make up his court. "That's a pity."

She's there again two days later. Then the day after that. Then again the day after that. Then she's missing for three days in a row and Nosty does not wonder where she is. After all, it took him long enough to know her name. If she lived in any of the usual places he would know her full life history by now and someone would be able to tell him where she was. But she doesn't (so he doesn't) (and they can't), so he doesn't even ask himself the question, unless it's to wonder about falling market shares and the profitability of his current profession.

She returns eventually – they all do unless they've OD'd. Even the reformed and the rehabilitated and those stupid enough to get themselves arrested all find themselves coming back to him. It's only the dead and the dying that can keep themselves away – she returns to him eventually on the last day of May. Summer is elbowing its vulgar self into the city and greenery seems to have sprung up from every available patch of dirt, down to the meanest corner of the darkest street. It'll wilt soon enough when the heat climbs and the streets will be reclaimed by refuse, piss, and vomit until winter's frost returns to seep the colour and the smell from the world, and then the whole cycle will start again.

Despite the sunshine, she's dressed for winter, hidden away beneath her layers. Nosty, who has worked a longer than usual shift the last the last three days, eyes her with irritation. She smiles in greeting, a timid thing that flitters then is gone, and when he does not return it, she licks her lips, her eyes darting to the ground.

"Can we talk?" she asks.

"I don't see why," he snarls. Belle flinches at his harsh tone, and his anger shifts sideways. "Shop's shut, darling.'"

She shifts her weight from foot to foot and brings her hands together. She doesn't even need to wring her hands in front of her before Nosty knows exactly what she's about to say.

He's heard it before, enough times to know the script word by word: _I don't have the money – I can pay you back – I'll do anything you want_. He's surprised that she's hit bottom so soon; for all her pallor and her skinniness and her warm layers, Belle has never had the look of a junkie.

He's also surprised at how keenly he feels the desire to take her up on her offer.

A quick blow job down the alleyway would cover the debt and he refuses to feel the slightest bit of shame as he tells her as much. Belle is far coyer, staring at the ground between them as she explains that, actually, her need is rather greater – a larger supply is necessary, a greater dose – and is there a higher price she can pay?

Her request will mean pissing away a clear hundred in profit, and Nosty tells her as much as he pretends to deliberate, using the time to greedily study what little of her soft skin and gently curling hair is on display.

"Come with me," he decides at last.

* * *

 

God knows what the old building used to be before it became a nightclub, but since it closed five years ago it's come to be home for Nosty and his boys. It's a shithole and no denying it. The place stinks of stale smoke and piss, and most of the windows have succumbed to well-aimed stones or bottles, but at least the roof is mostly intact. Life has become much comfier since moving undercover, especially as Nosty has secured himself a private room in the old office at the back. There's nothing in it, just a stained mattress and a mess of blankets, the occasional empty bottle lying around, but it means that he can sleep with his boots off, and it will provide a bit of privacy for what he plans to come.

Belle doesn't even look around, her eyes fixed on him. When he beckons her, she comes, until she's in his arms.

He wants to laugh then, because there's no way it should be this easy to tempt a creature like Belle into his lair. She's made for drawing rooms and piano lessons, not the broken glass and cigarette smoke world which spat him out, and yet she presses herself against his chest and raises her face to his.

Nosty kisses her simply because he can. He's bought and paid for this experience and he intends to enjoy himself. It's no softness to sink his fingers into her hair or rub his rough lips over the silk of her cheek. For her part, Belle clutches at his t-shirt and opens her mouth under his. She tastes like peppermint.

He takes his time kissing, enjoying the luxury of the closed door between them and the rest of the world. She's soft in his arms, for all her bony angles, and she sort of melts against him, making her seem softer still.

For a while, it's enough to rock his hips against her, gently thrusting his hardening cock against her stomach. It's a lazy, almost drowsy form of pleasure taking, and he finds that he appreciates it all the more for its novelty. He never had his own room growing up – hasn't had a bedroom of any variety since he was fifteen – and there's a luxury in not having to race towards the end. As such, he's content to run his hands over her clothes, enjoying the softness of the much-washed cloth beneath his fingers, until his need become more pronounced, and he tugs at her oversized hoodie. "This comes off," he instructs. "Bird like you? I want to see you."

Belle hesitates, then pulls the sweater over her head and drops it on the bed before peeling off the pretty, faded vest top underneath. Nosty watches her, enjoying the show despite her thinness, watching the gentle curves of her body slowly reveal themselves. He's prepared to see track lines on her arms, but they're unmarked save for the clear print of a man's grip just above her elbow. The bruise has faded to a sickly yellow colour, but there's a purple bloom across her ribs that speaks of more recent violence.

He pulls her towards him by the belt loop of her jeans and runs his fingers over her skin, looking for evidence of a needle, but there's none. Instead there are other bruises, too large to be puncture marks. At his urging, the trousers come off and so do the socks. By the time she's stripped down to her underwear, Nosty has accepted the truth: she's been buying for someone else. Someone who isn't adverse to leaving their prints on her pretty skin.

It's unusual for Nosty's instincts to lead him false, the uncomfortable sensation in his belly similar to that of missing a step in the dark and stepping out into the ether.

Unsteadied, he pulls her back into the tight circle of his arms, wanting to bury his face in her hair, just for a moment. It's like a cloud, soft and dark as the sky before thunder, and he wonders if she will let him pull it, twining the locks about his fists and holding her fast. Then Belle slides her hands under his t-shirt and strokes his flanks, up and along to the cool skin of his back. The unexpected touch is enough to bring him back to himself and Nosty is about to pull away, about to attend to the serious business of claiming his due, when she pulls at his t-shirt, dragging it upwards. That's when he realises that Belle has no idea how this is supposed to play out, that undressing hadn't even crossed his mind.

Quick, efficient, impersonal. That's what he expects. And, despite the liberties he has allowed himself so far, what he wants.

Yet he allows her to tug the rag up and over his head, exposing his skinny, scarred chest to her gaze. Lets her press her lips against his patchwork skin and slide her fingers along the indents of his ribs. Yanks her back against him so that he can feel her skin pressed against his own.

Her softness is like a drug. Nosty can feel the pull of it, the deep want it creates in his belly, stronger than a quick fuck on a filthy mattress will ever satisfy. He recognises it for the trap it is, yet he can't find it in himself to pull away, to harden himself against the siren call of her pale skin or her sweet kisses.

Gentle hands toy with his kilt, searching for the way to release the fabric, and it's all his can do to hold still. If he looks down, he will find his cock jutting obscenely, ludicrously, from the folds of the cloth. Belle's finds the loose end of his belt and begins the task of sliding the cracked leather through the buckle. The skin across his shoulders starts to prickle.

"Here," he grunts, pulling her towards the mattress and his nest of blankets.

With something similar to his normal cocky entitlement, he thrusts his tongue into her mouth, turning the kiss into something feral, demanding, and his nerves settle as the sensation of being in control returns. Belle yields to him almost eagerly, her lips parting to accept him, yet he cannot bring himself to use his hands as roughly. Try as he might, all they will do is cup and stroke and hold.

By the time the rest of their clothes are cast aside, his prick is pressed hard against his belly and his balls ache with the primal need to thrust his cock inside her and buck his hips until he spends himself in the sweet hot rush his body is already promising, but he knows that when he does this will all be over, and this…

He's never been one to savour pleasure. You hold a thing in your palm too long, some other fucker will do their best to snatch it away. Treats like Belle should be swallowed whole, gulped down so quick that it makes your belly ache, but he wants… He wants in ways he can't articulate, wants in ways that refuse to be twisted into a pretty speech.

"Fuck," he grunts. When words fail, there are other ways to get what you need; hands, nails, teeth and tongue, and he uses them mercilessly until no part of her is untouched. The dip of her navel, the rise of her hips, the slight swell of her less-than-generous breasts; he licks and paws at her, taking what he can. Her small nipples are already tightly budded with the cold, and he rolls each one between tongue and palate, grinning when she hisses and arches her back, pressing herself more firmly against him.

Belle, for her part, denies him nothing. Her eyes are huge in her pale face, but not with fear, oh no. There's nothing hesitant in the way she responds to him, and there sure as fuck is nothing timid in the way she reaches down to wrap her hand around his prick. Her eyes are large and liquid dark, even half-hidden under heavy lids. She strokes him unhurriedly, teasing his foreskin back to reveal the plump, flushed head of his cock before allowing the skin to glide back down, again and again, all with agonisingly slow deliberation.

Watching her like this is enough to make something coil tightly low down in his belly and he reluctantly eases her away. "Easy, lass," he breathes.

If he was city trader or some prick with a triple figure salary, then it would be nothing to spill himself in her hand, not when the whole night stretches before them. If this were a bed in a real bedroom, if there weren't a dozen of his boys just outside the door, if there wasn't the constant chance that their light and their noise would attract the interest of the fuzz, he might forget that this is nothing more than a hasty shag in a squalid half-dilapidated squat. He could take his time; learn what she likes, what she needs.

It's a surprisingly heady idea, and Nosty finds himself wanting to know what she tastes like, what would it be like to make her come. To hear the sound of her pleasure, to have her helpless, breathless in his arms. But this isn't some trendy apartment. This isn't Portland Road, the good end or the bad. He can hear the laughter and shouts from the other room, smells the muddy waters of the Thames as it oozes past outside.

Just because Belle isn't what he thought she was, doesn't mean that he isn't exactly what he's always been, doesn't mean that that is anything more than a negotiated transaction of the business variety. Doesn't mean that anything can ever come from this. He has half an hour at most before some wanker thinks it's funny to pound on the door, or a fight breaks out on the old dancefloor and the noise can no longer be ignored.

But then Belle is kissing him, her tongue is searching his mouth, and he lets himself forget, just for a little while. Her arms come about his neck, one hand cradling the back of his skull, tender enough to hurt, the other coming to rest between the sharp points of his shoulder blades.

Nosty ingratiates a hand between her legs, letting his fingers tickle through her curls. She's slick as butter, burning up despite the goosebumps that pebble her skin. When he pulls away, Belle moans. It's barely loud enough to register as a complaint, but her fingers tighten against his skin and her teeth close about his bottom lip. A hiss escapes him, but there's no note of warning in it. The sharp tips of her teeth send a shockwave through him, reverberating down to the base of his spine like a physical touch.

And just like that, the toying and the teasing have become too much, have gone on for too long. An urgency settles over them as they move together, an inelegant tangle of limbs as Nosty clambers over her and Belle reaches for his cock for a second time. All deliberation, all finesse, are gone and Nosty is grateful for the reprieve. The girl's cunt is like molten silk against the hypersensitive head of his prick, and it's all he can do to press forward, easing himself inside.

She hot and tight, and for a moment he's too breathless to move. Then her hands slide down his back to grip his bony arse and the tilt of her hips draws him deeper inside. It's that, rather than any conscious decision on his part, that causes his hips to buck. His body knows this dance, even as his thoughts spiral away from him in a rush, and his thrusts gain rhythm; staccato and sweet at first, becoming gradually more even as he struggles for control.

He holds his weight with his arms, the wiry muscles knotting with the effort, not quite trusting his legs. Every so often a tremor runs through him and his rhythm falters as he tries to rein himself back from the edge. Belle clings to him, murmuring something in his ear. All Nosty understands is his name and the feeling of her breath, hot and damp against his cheek.

Belle braces a foot on the mattress, and uses the leverage to meet him thrust for thrust. Her breath is ragged, her face flushed. Their skin, where it touches, is slick with sweat. Her breath starts to catch in her throat and he realises that she is close, fucking close to losing control and falling apart.

The thought alone is incendiary. Nosty breaks, completely and utterly. "Belle," he moans. "Belle, Belle, Belle."

His cock is still twitching as he curses, scrambling down the bed to rest between her legs. Sliding two fingers inside her, he presses his mouth up against her, flicking her clit frantically with his tongue. Perhaps he is too rough or the sensation is too strong, because her thighs are bracketing his head and her fingers are winding themselves into his dreads, but she's not pushing him away, only holding him in place. It doesn't feel like being trapped, feels like being anchored.

He curls his fingers, stroking, trying to find place and the pressure she needs. Her thighs tighten until he can no longer hear the noises she makes, but he can feel the moment that she comes, feel the way her body snatches greedily at his fingers and her legs begin to shake. His world narrows until there is nothing left but the taste and the liquid heat of her, chasing the final pulses of pleasure that clench at her core.

* * *

 

When he finally crawls up the mattress and throws himself against the tatty pillow, Belle twists amid the blankets and tucks herself against his side. She fits.

It's time to complete their transaction, but the girl seems in no rush to move, and if Nosty feels inclined to catch his breath before dragging himself from the sweet warmth of his bed, then it's no one's business but his own.

For the longest time there is no noise save for the sound of breathing evening out. He begins to wonder if Belle has fallen asleep, which is probably why he says it:

"You deserve better," he tells her. "Someone who'll treat you right."

She sits up then and stares at him until he feels compelled to prop himself up on his elbows. "Someone like you?" she asks.

He considers saying yes. Then, because he's half in love with her already, he does her the extraordinary generosity of telling her the truth. "No," he sighs, "not like me."

Something flashes across her face – something that might be relief or maybe disappointment – but it's gone so quickly, replaced by blankness so complete, that he wonders if he may have imagined it.

"Can I have the wraps?" she asks. "Or did you—" she makes a vague gesture with her hand "—want something else?"

And damn him if his cock doesn't stir sluggishly at the offer, like a guard dog that opens one eye even as it continues to snore, ready to rouse itself into action with the least provocation. Of course he wants something else, but even as he grins at her he knows that he will decline. The lassy has already paid for what she wanted; to ask for more would be stealing and they both know it.

He scuffles over to his discarded jacket and roots through the pockets for his fags. There's over five hundred quid in there, over a monkey in crumpled notes that a cannier lass could have made off with before he got his wind back.

Nosty stands to light a cigarette, the flare of the match throwing them both into sharp relief. What a pair they make, him with his scars and Belle with her bruises, both too pale and too thin.

 _It's a shame_ , he thinks. _A real fucking shame_.

He hands her the smack; dropping it on the bed would have felt too much like paying a whore and to even joke of it would sour his stomach. Because Belle has sold herself once, and who can do anything just once? Who stands at the top of a slippery slope and chooses to back the fuck away? It might be him again next time and maybe the time after that, but one day he'll have to say no and she'll find someone else who says yes.

His hands clench into fists as he watches her get dressed. He makes sure she doesn't see.

Bit by bit, her delicate skin is covered up. Last of all, she tucks the wraps into her pocket. If she's stopped by the police (wandering the streets late at night, notorious part of town) and is asked to turn out her pockets then she faces a night in the cells at the very least. It's the innocence of the gesture, _the fucking naiveté of it_ , that finally breaks him.

"Belle," he calls, just as she reaches for the door.  

She turns, her shoulders already bent under the weight of whatever it is she's about to return to. So different from the woman who returned his kisses only minutes before. Nosty's never known a universe in which he might prove to be the better option – the lesser of two evils – and it's this that makes him pause. There's a spark in Belle, a small and delicate light inside her that's slowly being snuffed out, and he could just as easily be the one to do it.

"Stay for a bit," he begs her, even as he wonders if he's doing the right thing, even as he wonders why doing the right thing by this sweet slip of a girl is somehow so important. "I have another proposition for you."

 


End file.
